Not What They Expected
by Semebay
Summary: Kumajirou is pedobear. Who knew?


4chan was the scum of the universe. That was the thought that refused to leave Canada's mind, even after the Olympics had ended. Since then, he had received weird looks and snickers, comments on his "performance," and musings about how his country dealt with children.

He hated 4chan. And Poland.

"Can't believe the papers wrote that!" he had moaned in the weeks following the winter fiasco, during the times when he wasn't preoccupied with hockey and his athletes. Kumajirou had wandered about around him, refusing to leave him. "What the hell was he thinking? _He's a fucking gossip queen! He had to have known!_"

Eventually the incident blew over. Pedobear was lost when hockey surged forward; the end of the Olympics came and went, and the newspaper article was lost in the backlog, saved on a few computers for a chuckle now and again (America had duct-taped the damn poster into his closet, so that he could have a good laugh in the morning).

What no one seemed to notice was the bear that ambled along behind Canada, pleased that the incident had finally gone away and left him in peace. Winter turned to spring to summer, and the bear could always be found following the light-haired Canadian at meetings and around different capitals and cities, remaining close to his hip with a large paw batting at the back pockets of Canada's jeans as though he were looking for something to grab and hold onto. When Kumajirou _was_ noticed, nations thought he looked rather endearing despite the teeth. They would chuckle slightly when he buried his head in Canada's shirt, hiding his face from watchers and growling into his chest.

What they didn't notice was how the animal's mouth would curve up ever so slightly, or how he would breath deeply and take in the scent of the Canadian. They had been together for years, living in the cold north, alone. They were natural together, more than master and pet, more like inseparable friends, brothers.

At least, that was what Canada thought.

It was America that was the first to notice the "oddities" the bear seemed to sport. That was probably the reason that no one took the "threat" seriously. It had been a simple comment, an observation about how Kumajirou kept his nose suspiciously close to Canada's groin at all times. England had glared, and France had laughed outright. Canada had hit him and stalked away with the bear in his arms. And Kumajirou had glared over Canada's shoulder, his dark eyes narrowed at the American as he wrapped his large fluffy limbs around Canada's shoulders and midsection, squeezing him and rubbing the side of his face against Canada's hair like a pet cat would.

America may have been joking before, but the reaction from the _bear_ of all things was what bothered him.

And he looked back at the poster duct-taped in his closet.

The poster was taken down and moved to the living room, where America could look at it and wonder. He had perused 4chan in his free time, chuckling as he wandered through /b/ and /x/. He had laughed at EFG and Pedobear alike, but he knew that _this_ was no laughing matter. What had stared as a joke had garnered a reaction from all listening parties, expected reactions that he could laugh about.

But not Kumajirou's reaction. The bear had always been calm, collected, cool, with a personality that simply let things wash over it. The smug look as he was taken away by Canada, the glare at the accusation—America was intrigued. And when America was intrigued, things started to happen.

* * *

No investigation can proceed without research, and America (surprisingly) wasn't one to skip steps so that he could get faster results.

In fact, he spent _hours_ reading through Encyclopedia Dramatica, finding every mention of Pedobear and taking careful notes. Every sighting and conversation and picture of a home-made plush doll was printed out and scattered around on the floor in his living room, the glares and lecherous smiles seeming to watch him, and mock him whenever he passed by the door.

Tony watched the activities with amused eyes (at least, America assumed it was amusement; Tony said "fuck" a lot, and that usually meant he liked something). While America sat and made marks on sheets of paper with a blue highlighter, Tony played video games and talked about limeys and bears and perverts (the other guys playing X-Box were slightly confused and concerned, but then realized that Tony was probably a twelve-year-old, so they just started calling him a fag).

America's research soon led him back to the bowels of 4chan, where he frowned at the antics of the summer fags, and recoiled in disgust at a reaction thread. He scoured through eleven pages of typical filth (and contributed a few pictures and insults), and then he found it.

The black eyes stared at him from the computer screen, its face contorted from the perverse pleasure it took from the CP he undoubtedly had littered through-out his hard drive (_Canada's hard drive, _America corrected himself, _because the pervert lives in his house)._

America readied himself for battle.

America scrolled past the obligatory "PEDOBEAR MOVE!"s that filled the page, as well as the pervert's "PEDOBEAR STAYS!" response. He was about to make a comment about how Pedobear was a faggot and a pervert, but then a comment caught his eye.

"very tasteful, Pedobear. A bit odd considering your tastes, but very nice."

America raised an eyebrow and scrolled back up.

That _bastard._

"Tasteful my ass," America growled as he stared at the picture. It wasn't so much a picture as it was a painting, and the subject was a very familiar face.

Pedobear's head may have been blocking the child's lower body, but the rest of the (unclothed) smiling child was _all_ Canada.

America's fingers flew over the keys as he typed, fury in every keystroke; his eyebrows furrowed when he narrowed his eyes, and he grit his teeth.

"that's my brother you fucking pervert!" America typed, quickly hitting tab and enter to submit his post. Within seconds there were people laughing at him and asking if "u mad?". The sheer ignorance of the /b/tards infuriated him, and he realized something that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge: he couldn't fight Pedobear online.

He had to move things off the internet. America glared at the piles of papers on his desk, and at the thirty-seven open tabs in Firefox. Thinking that using past records from Pedobear's exploits would help him had been naive. Every day was a new day, and a chance for things to change completely. He had been at war in the past, and he know from experience that it only took a second for things to go straight to hell. He couldn't expect his current enemy to to repeat his past transgressions.

"Fuck," America muttered, and he rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"Fuck." 

* * *

The world was stunned into silence when America took to the podium at the next conference. America looked around expectantly, and Germany slowly leaned towards the mic that was affixed to the table before him.

"America." Germany hesitated. "Would you care to... _repeat _that?"

America nodded. "Of course. I said we have a serious problem, and that's Pedobear!"

Poland began to giggle in his corner of the room, and Hungary leaned forward in her chair.

"Of course!" America turned around, and then it was revealed that he even had _posters_ and _graphs_ of various subjects that none of the nations had ever cared about before. In fact, no one had ever thought about a cartoon bear with an appreciation for under-aged children until the Olympics. And honestly, after so much time had passed, they really didn't want to bother anymore.

Before the nations could even consider interrupting America's insanity, said nation had turned around and clapped his hands together.

"I've been doing a lot of research, and I've found a few _surprising_ traits about this so-called _Pedobear_." America motioned to a map he had pinned up on the mobile cork board, and no one was surprised to see that it was of the United States. "Now see, I've been looking, and a lot of the kids in Pedobear's pictures are from the U.S. From me, y'know? But!" America slammed his fist on the podium, "I looked deeper! And what did I find?" America looked around eagerly, but none of the nations said a word. His expression fell slightly, and then it became hard. "Most of the children are from the north! And Canada!"

Blank stares. No one seemed willing to interrupt the ravings of a lunatic. When America didn't say anything, obviously waiting for an answer, Italy tilted his head to the side.

"America? Um... Isn't that America?"

"No!" America shouted, and he slapped the board behind him. It crashed into the wall and then wobbled forward, and Germany tensed. There had been a loud crack when the board had hit, and he was worried for the wall. "That's Canada! And _that's_ where Pedobear operates!"

There were mumbles of confusion when America looked around expectantly. Canada would have been hurt by the implication that he was just an extension of the United States, but he was too busy rocking back and forth in his chair while Kumajirou tried to comfort him. England was, for once, dumbstruck by the sheer stupidity of the presentation laid out before them, and had been struck speechless by events. France, on the other hand, was laughing quietly. He covered his lips with one of his hands to muffle the sounds, and watched as his two former charges both reacted to the presentation: one with enthusiasm, the other with humiliation.

"Now, we need to stop this menace once and for all!" America decided, completely unaware of the laughter and lack of enthusiasm. "I say we sweep into Canada and take him out! He will never prey on children again, and the world (and Canada) will be safe from ridicule and molestation!"

"Time's up!" Germany shouted suddenly.

America blinked in confusion and checked his watch. " No way, I still have a minute and nine-eight seconds."

"Time's up!" Germany repeated. "America, the world meetings are for _serious_ debate. At least with your normal plans you _attempt _to solve problems. This is ridiculous, and you need to sit-"

"But the bastard's preying on my little brother!" America argued. He opened a folder on the podium and began to flip through papers. "I have pictures to prove it!" He found what he was looking for and pulled out the printouts he had gathered from /b/. "See?"

"America, those are paintings," Germany snapped. "Besides, they don't even look like anyone here!"

America was prepared to argue, but then a bottled water slammed into the side of his head. The cap popped off and water sprayed everywhere. The ink on his graphs and posters began to run, and his head swivelled to face Canada.

"Come _on_!" America whined. "That wasn't even passive aggressive!"

"As if you know what that means," England snorted, finally managing to form words.

"I do _too_ know what it means!" America retorted. "It means... something!" He looked back towards Canada, but the double doors to the room were swinging shut. "No! Canada! Don't leave with him! He'll rape you!"

"America, sit down!" Germany roared, and America looked back up at him. "You have made a mockery of this meeting, and-"

"My eight minutes are up?"

"Yes!"

America bolted. He ignored Germany's shouts for him to stop, and only hesitated when he was finally in the hallway outside and confronted by a very calm-looking France. He didn't have a chance to speak before France had slipped the pictures out of his clenched hands and smoothed them against the wall.

"We may have something here," France mused, and America fidgeted. "Ah, Canada is already gone. But why don't you explain this to me?"

* * *

Afterwards, America would wonder if it was better to have a pedophile after his brother, or a pervert. France was surely going to ask for some kind of repayment after everything was over and done with, and America was _positive_ that he would want nothing to do with the man at that point in time.

However, desperate times called for desperate measures, and you had to fight perverts with perverts, or some shit like that. Hence France's involvement. And (after copious amounts of alcohol), they had managed to con England into joining their plans.

England really wasn't helping.

"Sasa frinny jun borg," England mumbled for the fifth time before America shushed him. Bringing him along had been a stupid idea. Everyone knew that England was completely useless when under the influence of alcohol, and America had been forced to listen to how "America was such a bad boy," unlike how "America, that doll, stayed with me through the wars."

At least England was talking about people _other_ than America (even though he still couldn't remember Canada's name). But, that wasn't the point. That was completely unrelated to what they were doing at three in the morning, on a Tuesday morning, in the middle of nowhere, hiding in the bushes behind Canada's house. France was having far too much fun peeking through the dark windows, and England was having trouble staying in a reasonably upright position.

"Okay, so we know the plan, right?" America asked. He was ready to burst into the house, but he knew that his awesome planning would be for nothing if the other two didn't understand what was about to go down. He had spent three days coming up with this plan, and he wasn't going to let England fuck it up.

Or France. He wasn't going to let France fuck it up either.

"I seduce him, and you hunt down the bear," France said. He picked a piece of lint from his shirt (light blue, silk, completely stupid considering they were trying to _hide)._

America was about to correct him when he realized that France had actually gotten it right. "But you _distract_ him. You don't seduce him."

"Same thing." France shrugged.

America looked towards the house, and shoved England away when he got too touchy-feely. There was a light on in the upstairs bedroom, and he was sure that Kumajirou was within, posting pornographic images of his brother to strangers on the internet around the world. That _bastard._

"Do it now," America decided, glaring at the window. Without another word, France dragged England out of the bushes (America noted that England had a bottle of whiskey in hand, a nice touch), and then directed him towards the door. France whispered something, and then England started to wail.

"America!" England cried, and there was a _thud_ inside the house. America ducked down behind the bushes when he heard Canada running towards the door, and France climbed in through an unlocked window.

"England?"

"America, you _bastard_," England whined, slurring his words. He continued on about empires and rebellions and power while Canada helplessly tried to shake away sleep and comfort the former empire. America used that time to circle around to the opposite side of the house, where he quickly located an unlocked window.

America understood two things while he was struggling to enter the window: one, it was really hard to climb into a window that was a foot above your head; and two, France had far too much experience in doing just that to be considered _mildly_ creepy.

After kicking his legs and flailing around, America finally pulled himself into the window and dropped onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs. He barely heard Canada's scream when France revealed himself (sans clothing) to the northern nation. He was too busy sneaking up the stairs, and trying to figure out how to make them _stop fucking creaking._

America finally reached the top of the stairs, and he froze in place. He had to listen closely, but after a while he finally heard the tabs of a keyboard. A grin darkened his face when he realized that _finally_ he would confront his brother's corrupter, and _finally _he would stop the pervert from posting pictures of sweet, little Canada everywhere. He crept down the hall, keeping his breathing in check, and stopped just before the door that the lights and sounds came from. He wanted to cheer, but instead checked his pocket for the tazer within. He had _borrowed_ it from one of his local police stations for this purpose (the .22 in his belt was just in case the shit hit the fan).

America counted to three in his head, then peeked around the door.

He was staring Kumajirou in the eyes, and man, did that bear look _pissed._

America would later deny that a scream befitting a five-year-old girl had ripped from his throat. He would also claim that he so did _not_ lose his cool.

America fired the tazer frantically and if the smell, the sparks and the fire were any indication, he had hit the computer. That was a good thing, considering Kumajirou could no longer access the internet for his devious schemes. It was also a bad thing, because Kumajirou chose that time to flee the room and race down the stairs.

America followed the fleeing bear (though his descent of the stairs was a lot more painful when he rolled down them), and then ran past a naked France, a half-naked England, and a terrified Canada into the forest, gun waving in the air and shots being fired every which way. Kumajirou was long gone, but not dead. The thought irked America, even when he became lost in the woods and had to have the Mounties come find him (Canada refused, for some odd reason).

But all was well in his eyes. His brother was safe.

Until Kumajirou was reclaimed the following week by his brother, after Canada searched for three days and finally found him dining on scraps outside a restaurant in the city.

America seethed. He was locked in his house, unable to leave the country because there had been a unanimous decision that he was _unstable_. The president took care of his duties, a temporary representative had been chosen to take his place until he was released from house arrest in two months, and he had to sit at home and play video games while he bided his time.

Kumajirou and America both knew that their next meeting would (literally) rock the world. America had already looked into missile systems and heavy artillery for their confrontation. He made plans and rethought them, day after day, making sure that everything was perfect. He would _not_ fail the next time. He would take out that fucking bear, and he would-

"Tony?" America paused in his planning when Tony waddled through the room, obviously trying his hardest to run and hide in the basement. "What's up?"

"Murder. Gotta hide. Fuck." Tony disappeared into the basement, and America twisted his lips in confusion. He pushed his papers away and rose from the table, then made his way into the room that Tony had fled. A laptop lit the darkness of the room, and America stepped in front of it to have a look.

"_EFG KILLED PEDOBEAR_"

America stared at the computer, and clicked a button.

Well. That was that.


End file.
